Tin Prison
by Attingere
Summary: Everyone has their own prison. "Heart had nothing to do with it, Cain had said, but the distorted voice above him assured his family was alive."
1. Cain's Heart

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Cain's heart had always been made out of tin.

It was his polished tin star that he had proudly worn on his breast pocket for many years. Then it was his luminous achievement, and it took the light from his disciplined blue eyes and added to their fervor. Some learned to fear that heart, and Cain put it away every night because Adora didn't like to be reminded of it while they were together.

Then, it was the torturous suit Zero had locked him in. He could even feel the suit around him throbbing with a vengeful heat some nights. When he was unlocked, Cain was shocked when he saw and felt his hair and skin stained silver blue. For a single irrational moment Cain thought he was covered in blood from his star-shaped tin heart, bleeding from seeing Adora and Jeb being beaten and dragged away over and over again.

Now, it was one of the painted tin horses he had given Jeb. It was in the same box as the tin star which had used to hold such precedence, but he had given years to that badge. He fell on his knees as if in prayer and held the tiny tin horse to his lips for a moment, then put it in his pocket, where the tin badge used to hang so proudly. The acrid aftertaste remained on his lips for hours.

Zeros' knee hit Cain's mouth and nose squarely, and he could feel nothing but the pain. Heart had nothing to do with it, he had said, but the distorted voice above him assured his family was alive.

The metallic taste of blood on his tongue reminded him of the tin taste of the little horse in his shirt pocket. And Zero pulled back the hammer and fired. The fall and the impact was a painful, frightening blur. As Cain gasped from the shock of the frigid water, he marveled how cold the cloth-covered tin horse felt against his skin, it cooled so very quickly.

He later marveled how his heart could stop bullets.

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	2. Azkadellia's Hands

Azkadellia's hands had always been one step ahead of her head.

Azkadellia's nails were digging into DG's, but her fingers were twisted painfully and the small hand pulled back. For an instant, her palm brushed DG's and an errant spark of light bloomed in the darkness that threatened to envelop her.

The grass whispered against the hem of her dress. Az could dimly see where she was, feel the odd gait of her own legs walking, and the burning itch on her back. Her fingers twitched when she tried to move them, and a primal fear made the hairs stand up on her arms. The witch smothered Az 's consciousness, pushed her away with clouds of pain and exhaustion until Az fainted. But Azkadellia kept walking, black eyes like beads of tar in her pale face.

Some memories Az didn't want to remember. She dreamed about her nails digging into DG's in a very diffrent way, she dreamed about the spark of light smothered by black curtains of hair. When she was finally emotionally exhausted she thought of the times in her childhood instead: the doll, held aloft by her and DG, and their joined hands.

Az hadn't seen the Queen until much later in her tortuous captivity. Lavender Eye's achingly familiar person meant nothing to the witch except muscles to judge and hurt and manipulate, yet Az had a decade and a half of embraces and talks and memory. Az's hands, her lovely, traitorous hands with the talon nails, dug into the top of her breasts, marring the black scars with red rivulets. The witch and her minions keened inside Az, but Lavender Eyes placed both her hands reassuringly on Az's shoulders and clung to her, holding her up with a mother's strength. An elbow swung wildly and a stunned Queen staggered back, followed by a swift backhand. Azkadellia disappeared with a clap, while Lavender Eyes pressed her sleeve to the bruised imprint of her daughter's hand and her weeping eyes, and a stunned Az withdrew deeper into her subconscious.

A long while later a moment of clarity came through the fog. Az remembered waking up from a nightmare and feeling the sweat stand out on her face and arms in a light sheen. With wobbly legs, she walked to the mirror and felt faint when the pads of her own fingertips played across her own face. Then Azkadellia's face twisted into the old hag's visage, her brief sense of elation and relief was pummeled with pain that nearly split her head. Her hands curled around the edges of the mirror, unwilling to let go. Her hands knew she would be soon freed from this prison.


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